Page 39 of The Things We Never Say

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Anne Merrill decided that she was just going to ask Artie to have lunch with her in her classroom. They had done that in the past, many times, and she would just ask him to do it again. She felt querulous often because of her daughter. And there were other things as well. Twenty years ago, Anne’s husband, Ed, had had an affair, and Anne thought—at the time—that it had broken something within her. She was humiliated beyond belief, and she could see (she thought), in certain people’s eyes, their pity or, worse, their judgment. But Artie had been wonderful. He had never said a thing, he kept on acting toward her as he always had. And now her husband, Ed, seemed distracted once again, and a cold pool of quiet horror sat inside Anne’s stomach all the time.

She was really missing Artie.

The day after Artie and Danny Marino had cleaned up the magic marker on the wall, Artie found another note in his mailbox from Hoover Lakeland. See me? Today please—HL. So during his free third period Artie went to Hoover’s office and, once again, was motioned in. “Look,” Hoover said. “This beastly Roper child, what happened?”

Artie told him.

Hoover exhaled. “Well, he’s gone on social media, writing some very ugly stuff about you, and—Come on, Artie, you know when you kick a student out of class you have to submit a report on it right away. Where’s your report?”

Artie thought this through. “I haven’t kicked out a student in all my years of teaching,” he finally said.

“Well, you have now. So get a report in. And then we have to see the parents. Tomorrow at five o’clock, and, Artie, I’m going to want to kill myself after I ask you this—”

(Artie was to remember this always, considering what was to happen in two years’ time.)

“But after you get that kid to apologize to you, I want you to apologize to the parents and do whatever you need to do to make this go away, we don’t need it, we don’t want it.”

Hoover stood up. “Sorry about this,” he finally said, and Artie, who also stood up then, said, “Don’t worry about it, Hoover. My fault. I’ll deal with it.”

“Tomorrow at five?”

“See you then.”

“You’re the best we have,” Hoover said, and sat down again with a huge sigh.

But Artie did not tell Evie about any of this. Not an honest word did he say when she asked how his day had gone. He had not told her about Danny Marino, and he did not tell her about Rick Roper.

“Perfect. How was yours?” He said this as she sat in the dark brown velvet chair with her glass of wine.

And he did not listen to her carefully as she told him about the people she had seen that day and their various problems. And she did not mention to him the woman who had ended up telling her husband about her affair and how they were now probably headed for divorce, so unnecessary, Evie thought; the woman had wept profusely in Evie’s office.

It was dark outside at five o’clock the next day—Artie could see this through his classroom windows—and the school had an empty feeling. The cheerleaders had gone home from practice, and no whistles could be heard in the gym for basketball practice. Artie left his coat in the teachers room and walked to Hoover’s office. In the outer office Rick Roper sat, looking at the floor. “Rick!” Artie said. “Aren’t you coming in?”

Hoover stepped into the outer office. “He’ll be with us in a few minutes. Come on in, Artie.”

What Artie saw surprised him. The parents of Rick Roper looked scared. He had not expected that. The father was wearing a baseball cap, and he took it off as soon as Artie entered the room. “Hello!” Artie said this, walking over to them and shaking their hands. The woman’s hand was cold; she looked exhausted; she wore bright lipstick on her thin lips but no other makeup. The man shook Artie’s hand with little enthusiasm. But they looked at Artie with real fear, and then the woman dropped her eyes to the floor.

Hoover sat down in his chair behind his desk and Artie took a seat near the couple.

“Listen,” Artie said, stretching his legs out and then immediately tucking them back under him. “So sorry about what happened.”

“What did happen?” It was the mother who asked this, looking up at him. He saw that her eyes were green; they had once been pretty eyes, he thought.

Artie told them the story without leaving anything out, and they both nodded when he was done. “That’s what he told us.” The woman said this, and she and her husband looked at each other with (what Artie thought was) a sense of slight relief.

“But why did you throw him out of the class?” The man asked this, with no hostility, and Artie said, after considering a moment, “Well, that’s a really good point.”

“You could have—you know”—the man nodded and held up a hand—“just told him the language was offensive.”

“You’re right,” Artie said. “I could have.” He looked from one to the other, they were watching him guilelessly, he thought. “But I didn’t. I told him to leave the class. I should have just demanded an apology right there. So I have to tell you both: I am sorry. I really am.”

He glanced at Hoover, who looked at him without expression.

“Can you tell him that?” the woman asked, and she turned her head toward the outer office.

“I can and I will.” Artie stood as Hoover went to the door to indicate that Rick should come in. Rick entered the room with insolence, not looking at anyone.